Chapter Thirteen
Logan
“I didn’t think about hockey for nine hours straight today,” I reported to my mother on Sunday night. “It was older kids coming to camp so they didn’t need me to help with the move-in, so I had the afternoon off and from noon until twenty minutes ago, not a single thought of hockey.”
“Do I want to know what you were doing to distract yourself?” she asked. There was a tone in her voice that let me know she knew of, or at least suspected, female involvement. And, yeah, I’d been with Dawn, but not doing anything mom-inappropriate.
“Horseback riding,” I said. “I never did it before and I don’t know if I’ll ever do it again, but I did it today. A trail ride. And then swimming. But in a different place than we normally swim, so—that’s exciting by Corrigan Falls standards.”
“Sounds lovely. I seem to recall you not enjoying swimming laps when you were supposed to be doing it for your physio, but I’m glad it’s more fun now. And who were you with for all this?” Dig, dig, investigate, snoop…
But I had it covered. “There were a bunch of us. Locals—I met a couple guys at the golf course early on, so I’ve been hanging around with them and their friends mostly.”
Ha. And now that I had my victory, I could afford to be a little benevolent. “But there is a girl I’m spending some time with. I was going to talk to Dad about making room for her in the plane for the trip home next week. She’s going to McGill in the fall, and I thought she might like a sneak peak at the city.”
“That sounds lovely. We’ll be happy to meet her. And you’ll be staying at our place?”
Yup, that was right on schedule. “Probably not. I mean, I’m paying rent on the apartment—seems like I should at least spend some time there.”
“Or else stop paying rent on it,” she suggested. I didn’t answer right away and then she said, “But, no. You’re right. You’re an independent young man—you have your own home and your own life. You don’t want to move backward, and there’s no need for it. You’re moving forward. And horseback riding! What color was your horse?”
And we kept going like that for a while, exchanging little bits of nothing, me letting her know I was okay, her letting me know she was there for me, and then my dad came on the phone.
My dad was a bit more difficult to deal with. My mom worried about me after I got hurt, but she didn’t really understand. She’d always had a love-hate relationship with hockey—loved the money and the excitement, hated the way her husband and only child obsessed about it. So the injury upset her because she loved me, but it upset my dad because he loved me and he loved hockey. He wasn’t nearly as good at the you’ll-find-something-else-to-care-about cheerleading as my mom was. But he tried, and I appreciated that.
“They’re taking good care of you out there?” he asked now. “There’s enough food? I know it’s a sports camp, but still, people sometimes don’t understand how much an athlete needs to eat.”
And then an awkward pause, because I wasn’t burning too many calories with any of my recent activities. Wasn’t an athlete anymore. “There’s enough food,” I managed. “Everything’s good. Brady loves getting phone calls from you—you should come by the camp when you’re here and totally blow his mind.”
“I’d be happy to. Haven’t seen him in years.”
And it was always nice to get a little ego stroking from an obsessed fan. I could understand the impulse, even if I couldn’t enjoy it myself anymore.
I mentioned the idea of having an extra passenger when he came to pick me up and he said it wouldn’t be a problem; he didn’t ask a lot of questions, but I could tell he and Mom were going to compare notes as soon as they got off the phone.
Then I went outside and stood on the deck of the bunkhouse, looking up at the stars. Dawn’s new boss had invited her to some sort of guided star-gazing session at the golf course that night. The excuse was that the boss didn’t have good night vision and didn’t want to drive herself home, but I was pretty sure she just wanted the company. If she really couldn’t see at night, how the hell would she have been able to see the stars? But I couldn’t blame her. Looking at the stars with Dawn was a lot better than looking at them by myself.
I was standing out there when Brady came by—walking slowly, but clearly with some purpose. And apparently his purpose was to find me.
“I have a favor to ask,” he said as he stepped up onto the deck and turned to look out at the camp. “But it’s totally okay if it’s something you don’t want to be part of. No pressure. I’d just be kicking myself if I didn’t even ask.”
“This doesn’t sound good,” I replied.
“If it still doesn’t sound good when I’m done explaining, then just say no. Seriously—if you’re not interested, it’s fine.”
“Okay,” I said cautiously.
“It’s about hockey,” he said.
“Yeah. I was getting that feeling.”
“Not playing. I know you can’t do that. But—we’ve got the fourteen and fifteen-year-olds this week, and they’re—well, they’re fourteen and fifteen-year-olds. Lots of energy, lot of bravado, and they’re totally ready to worship a hero if one should wander by.”
I started figuring out the words I’d use to tell him “no.”
“We have a camper this year who can’t play,” Brady said, delaying my refusal at least by a little. “Who may never play again. He’s been coming to camp here since he was six years old, he loves hockey—and he’s got Leukemia. He’s not doing too well. Coming back to camp this year is like his Make-A-Wish trip. You know what I’m saying?”
Shit. I guess I did, yeah.
“He thought he was going to be able to skate a few shifts at least, but his doctors are telling him no. So I’m trying to convince him to coach. He could be pretty good at it—he’s a smart kid, and he understands the game—he’d do well. But he’s pulling back. He seems to think that if he can’t play, he doesn’t want to be at the rink.”
“Maybe he’s right to feel that way,” I said. “Maybe it’d be too damn hard for him to see everyone else having fun while he just has to sit there on the sidelines.”
“You think he’s better off sitting in his bunk feeling sorry for himself?” Brady waited for me to think about that, then said, “This isn’t a judgment on your decision or how you’re handling things. You have a whole lifetime to get used to not playing hockey, and if you want to take things slow, that’s your decision. But Andy—that’s his name, Andy—he may not have that kind of time. This may be his last summer, and his last chance to be involved in hockey in any way. If that’s the case I want him to participate to whatever degree he’s able.”
“Okay,” I said. It was hard to argue with anything he was saying. Hard to remember any reason why I might want to argue.
But then he reminded me. “I want you to consider being his co-coach. Working with an ex-NHLer—I don’t care if you only played one game, it still counts—that could be enough to make him feel like this is a real challenge, not a consolation prize.”
“Jesus,” I said.
Brady nodded in acknowledgement. “I know, it’s asking a lot. And if you can’t do it, I’ll understand. I’ll be disappointed, but—” He shrugged in a way that made it clear that life was full of disappointments.
“How much time would it be?” I asked. I was feeling kind of numb. “Just this week, while he’s here, but—how many hours a day?”
“Morning practices and evening games. Most of Saturday’s a round-robin tournament, and if his team makes the finals, the big game’s Sunday morning.”
“That’s a lot of hockey.”
“That’s why they’re here.”
I wracked my brain, trying to come up with a way to get out of it. I thought about recruiting one of the Raiders I’d met, the three of them all on their way to the NHL even if they hadn’t played a game yet, but they’d already left town, on their way to their teams’ development camps. I didn’t know anyone else in the area, no one else who’d be enough to convince a sick kid that coaching wasn’t a bad gig. “Shit,” I said.
Brady just waited.
Finally, I said, “Okay, yeah. Shit. I don’t—I can’t skate. Like, my doctors told me not to skate. Whatever healing my knee’s still doing, it could get messed up if I push too hard. But if you want someone behind the bench—for just this week, just this kid—okay. I guess I can do it.”
“That’s great, Logan,” Brady said. “I’m proud of you.”
One of the notes on me when I’d been getting drafted was about how coachable I was. It was a compliment, then, but standing there and feeling Brady’s praise warm away the chill I’d gotten when I agreed to go back to the rink, it occurred to me that “coachable” might be another word for “people pleaser” or “pushover.” I mean, I’d come to the camp with one restriction, and just a couple weeks in, he’d already steamrollered right over that boundary.
It was for a good cause, sure. If the kid was really that sick, I’d have to be a complete asshole to not let it give me a little perspective. But, shit. Hockey. The game had chewed me up, spit me out, and moved on without a backward glance, and now I was crawling along after it, trying to grab hold of anything I could reach. Totally pathetic. Totally against my better judgment.
And at the same time, whispering from somewhere deep inside, there was an excited little voice. Hockey. Hockey. Back to the rink. Gear up, get on the ice. Hockey. Hockey.
The voice needed to talk to my doctors, clearly.
“What about the golf?” I asked, trying to stay level-headed.
Brady smiled. “When the kids find out we have an ex-NHLer behind the bench, they’re all going to want to be at the arena, watching. If a few strays want to go and play nine holes, they’re old enough to do it on their own.”
So my summer job, my real job, was a total make-work project. Not a surprise, but not welcome news, either. I was only at the camp because my dad was a hockey star, and I was only useful at the camp when I was connected to hockey.
There was no damn escape from the game.
Hockey. Hockey, the little voice whispered. Gear up, get on the ice.
I couldn’t go that far. But apparently I was at least going to make it to the rink.